Jack the Ripper
by Lady-Arsene
Summary: Arthur has a rather grotesque interest. He adores the sight of crimson blood. He owns a knife, which can be used to see this blood. And Whitechapel, London is just brimming with people to give Arthur what he wants. Rated M to be safe. (DISCONTINUED!)
1. Mary Ann Nichols

**DISCLAIMER: I do not know everything that had occurred during the Whitechapel Murders. I'm simply writing this based on what I may already know. I'm also not the owner of Hetalia. That right belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

Arthur hadn't a clue as to what was the matter with him. An urge. A hunger. Bloodlust. Whatever the mass may call it. Insane? Perhaps, he craved feeling thick crimson on his tounge. It wasn't normal to fantasize about these things. He could be caught, and the asylum is where he'll quite literally spend eternity. But, he yearned- no needed- to see someone bend to the will of his knife. Green eyes scanning his chosen victim as they pleaded for their pathetic existence. Yes, sounds splendid, and Whitechapel is simply crawling with low-life individual selling their bodies or locked within the walls of the blighted workhouses.

So, once dusk overcame the blazing sun, Arthur had suited out to become one with the shadows. And selected a seven inch knife to do his bidding. He hid the knife in his black overcoat, which surprisingly was quite the feat, before boarding a carriage from Westminster heading towards Whitechapel. Surely the ladies of the night were out preying for men to snag. Little did they know, they were to become the prey themselves.

It felt as if years had slowly trudged by before Arthur was released from the stuffy carriage's enclosure. Paying the driver, Arthur's hearing had retrieved the sounds of a pub's door opening and creaking shut. A drunken woman's roaring laughter following closely behind. Jackpot.

"Thank you, sir." The driver said before turning his horse right around and exiting the poor borough. Leaving Arthur and his very first, unfortunate, victim to be alone.

This girl, Arthur didn't bother to catch her name but she had dark hair hidden underneath a bonnet and a rather pompous frame, stumbled about on her feet. Happily humming and heading towards God knows where. Arthur trailed close behind on the cobblestone, fiddling with his noir top hat and he attempted to remain as silent as possible. But the woman's mind seemed not to notice the shadow practically floating behind her. Instead, her mind was focused on uplifting songs and retrieving her money from her clientele.

It was like this for a solid ten minutes, until they had reached Buck's Row, by a stable's entrance that was decorated by a gate. That's when Arthur decided to role the dice and brandish his large knife, hustling up to her swaying body to lightly tap her back with the sharpened tip. "Excuse me, madam." Arthur smirked. "I hope Hell has an opening for you."

"Wot! Wot the bloody hell is that supposed ta' mean?" She slurred, turning her body to become face to face with this man with a knife.

"Exactly as it was said, milady, Hell will become your new watering hole." Arthur's voice crescendo as the sentence lingered on. He witnessed a flash of red before him before he tackled the poor lady down to the cement, straddling her waist to keep her down. "You better not scream. Be a good girl for once, would you?" Arthur grimaced as he saw this lady struggle and wiggle around like a fish out of water. Yet, she had made no peep as to Arthur's request. Placing the knife firmly to the right of her throat, with one vigorous motion, he had swiped left then right, nearly performing a decapitation. A minute hadn't even breezed on by before Arthur swung the knife up into the cool air, and delivering it straight into her torso. Sliding it down, cutting dress and flesh, to reveal the grotesque intestines to the outside touch of air. Arthur could feel his mouth water at the sight.

A few more lacerations, more for show than anything else, amongst the torso later. And Arthur had found himself with a stunning cadaver to kick start his future endeavors. He licked the blood free from his knife and the remnants sliding from his glove. He adored the metallic taste, along with the presentation of entrails spilling forth like a blooming flower from this girl's body. Arthur couldn't find a single word to describe what he was feeling. Even after he'd returned home and was informed of his lovely work of art being discovered. Fulfilled? Not quite there. But, however, there was one thing he could be sure of.

Arthur loved the sight of what was on the inside of the human body. And he wanted to see more of it. He smirked to himself, with a chuckle low in his throat. He thought to himself. ' _Let the games begin.'_

 **AN: This may become a continued piece if I get enough reviews asking for it. Detailing the next four of the Canonical Five murders, and how Arthur evaded suspicion from Frederick Abberline. If you would all be so kind, could you private message me or leave a review if you think I should carry this torch forward. It would be greatly appreciated. Nonetheless, thank you all with all my heart for reading. I hope you've enjoyed this!**


	2. Abberline

News of Arthur's night time escapade spread through London-England in its entirety for that matter-like a wildfire. An unfortunate tale of an unfortunate prostitute meeting her unfortunate demise, seemed to be a stupendous topic for the gossiping wives of some of London's elite-of course during tea time. Placing their porcelain tea cups up to their plump-delicate-lips-whilst slaving over the state of the body of Mary Ann Nichols.

Arthur had all ways felt that urge to smile whenever he was told about his own massacre in Whitechapel. Told about the work of art he created for the world to be inspired by. First, from the posh 'nobles' of London he passed by on the cobblestone streets. The ladies were holding their parasols, decorated in lace a flimsy cloth, as the openly talked with their escorts. Either it be another woman or a man, Arthur managed to pick up on their views of his work without any difficulties. Then, after his long walk had finally come to an end, by Queen Victoria herself-God save her.

"'Tis a gruesome act, I will admit." The Queen in the flesh had said once Arthur was in her company. She held her tea cup delicately in her hands as she brought it upwards for a quick sip; patting her lips with a cloth napkin once finished.

Arthur nodded in confirmation, the breeze entering through the open balcony doors pushing some of his stray hairs aside. "You are absolutely right, your majesty, who would do such a thing?" _I would._

The Queen set down her tea cup, becoming more in favor with her hand-held fan. "Perhaps Whitechapel should be patrolled more often." The Queen thought vocally, fanning herself with her gaudy ostrich-feathered fan.

'I agree, our people need to remain safe." _I guess I should put on a show._

After departing from the magnanimous castle, Arthur had caught wind of, none other, than Fredrick Abberline being assigned to investigate his work of art. And these floating rumors were indeed confirmed to be true, once Detective Abberline himself entered Arthur's old manor-located a miles walk away from the bustling Westminster borough-with a tip of the hat and a smile. When Arthur had closed the door after Abberline had entered, he bit the inside of his lip to conceal a Cheshire Cat grin.

"What a mighty fine steading you have here, Mr. Kirkland." Abberline had begun with such small talk as he was lead into the parlor by Mr. Kirkland himself. He hung his overcoat on the coat rack by the cream-colored door frame leading into the parlor. He cleared his throat before continuing on.

Arthur scoffed, gesturing Abberline to rest himself down on his brand new-dust free-couch that was a present from the Queen. "Please, Chief Inspector, you have been here many times before." Arthur sat himself down next to Mr. Abberline on that piece of furniture. "We are not having that conversation for the fifth time." Arthur stated, internally thinking, _'What a bloke. Lowering my guard, huh? I will play this game.'_

"Now why is it that you came all the way out here for? Hm?"

"Oh yes! A carriage driver had dropped by and said that someone go your... appearance rode his carriage out to Whitechapel near the time of the murder." Abberline said, with absolutely no diction in his voice that indicated he thought that Arthur was indeed the culprit. The mastermind if you may.

Once more, Arthur had scoffed. He faintly furrowed his eyebrows and dismissed the claim with a wave of his hand. "That is preposterous! There are plenty of others who have blonde hair and green eyes!" He narrowed his eyes. "I live a long walks away from the city!"

"Yes-yes, I am very well aware of that." Arthur rolled his eyes, with a shake of his head. "But not many men specifically ask to be forgotten about."

"What are playing at?"

"I simply want to know where you were at the time of the murder, Mr. Kirkland."

To say that he was sleeping at the time of the crime would inflict more suspicion onto him. How would Arthur know about the time? That piece of information would be hot off the press as of tomorrow. So, the elder Englishman replied with another question, one to preserve his 'innocence'. "When did it occur, if I may ask?"

"At approximately one this morning. Right after a carriage boy had found her."

"One in the morning!" Arthur feigned exasperation, in order to keep his act running. "By the gods, my people have grown especially cruel." Abberline stared on, eyes begging for an answer Arthur later presented him with. "Sleeping. I am an old man, I need those sorts to keep me going."

"Are you sure?"

 _'What kind of shite question is that?'_

"I swear on the Queen's good name."

Abberline sighed after Arthur prominently displayed the answer to his question. He diverted his gaze down to his lap, his lips slightly pursed out, trains of thought docking and departing every second. Arthur knew what to suspect from the chief inspector of HIS police force, any question he could dodge with ease. And he could evade possible death or jail time with a single word.

Abberline was wasting his precious time. And the inspector himself seemed to have figured that out as well. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Kirkland. I shall be going now." Abberline rose, and steidded over to the coat rack to fetch his overcoat and top hat.

"Is that all?"

"Yes. If any further suspicions rise then I will return." He stated, successfully slipping on his coat and holding onto his hat-since he was still indoors. "Farewell." He partly bowed his head, turning on his heel to exit through the door frame.

Once Arthur had heard the entrance door open and shut, he felt a chuckle bubble up his throat. Before he openly talked to himself. "Perhaps I shall go out again. I am feeling famished."

* * *

 **AN: Been a long while, hasn't it?**

 **I've decided to go forth with this story, after several months have passed. Mostly since I have learned more of the Whitechapel murders themselves and I've been to the Jack the Ripper museum in Whitechapel!**

 **Besides that, I do not have a clue as to how any real life people may have acted, so I am working off of what I know from their biographies.**

 **Any way, I hope you all enjoyed this! And if you wouldn't mind, could you please leave me a review? I'd love to see how I am doing, and what I could do to improve!**


	3. Preparation

Arthur had waited patiently-too patiently considering the massive change he underwent-for his next night on the prowl. Each night at his manner, in the outskirts of London, he could simply hear the sounds of Whitechapel calling to him. The lovely ladies lining up for a taste of his knife. Abberline running in circles whilst trying to uncover the culprit. The entirety of London, perhaps even England, wallowing in their fears of Arthur. And Arthur enjoying a splendid ice cool pint of whiskey at a Whitechapel pub for a job well done.

But, I digress.

While he was lying in wait, he would indeed stroll around Whitechapel-He hadn't completely abandoned it. Either strolling with Abberline or an old colleague reminiscing on his youth, and all the fond moments with the Englishman beside him. All the while, Arthur had kept his eye out for the next precious pet who would scream for mercy in his name.

However, he was quite the nitpicker when it came to hand selecting his new art display.

 _'Too hairy... too big on the waist, on the chest even and hair on the chest, what is this? A circus! Ugh, and her dress is a walking catastrophe. Victoria would vomit at the sight of it.'_ Arthur would find himself thinking, as he was on one of his numerous tours. Yet, one very fateful day, he spotted the perfect woman. So distasteful in her acts, yet as beautiful as a siren to Arthur's rages. However, there were faint bruises decorating her skin, something that had Arthur debating whether or not to convert her into his vision. But, then again, collaborative work can be quite the spectacle.

Oh was this lady in desperate need for a bit of dirty money. Anything to pay off her lodging, simply anything to have a roof over her head! Oh, how simply overplayed and dreadful this predicament is! Whoever could help?

Perhaps our gentleman Arthur here could heed her cries provide her with a shilling, or two, perhaps three if he felt his heartstrings pulled by her story. All to have her under his arm for only a short while. She had an appointment in Hell to fulfill after all, Arthur did not want to see her be late.

Annie Chapman, a divorcee with two surviving children out of the original three-an alcohol dependency exactly like the last tramp Arthur had visited-and hungry for a quick buck, was to have her name gracing the headlines the day after.

He returned home after spotting Miss Annie walking with no care in the world, well also after visiting her majesty for some lovely tea and swinging by for a quick walk past Abberline's office, it was midnight and finally September the eight when he returned-best not to leave that out. Before his preparations were to begin, Arthur had prepared himself a bath. To put in a simple matter-which this was a simple matter, taking a bath was not considered anything remotely genius-he scrubbed himself until the point in which he was pristine, turning some spots raw from over scrubbing, since being covered in any form of dirt seemed to falter his allure.

He clothed himself in his customary clothes, the original button down dress shirt with dress pants; complemented by some newly pressed bowtie and a vest that was partly concealed by a suit jacket. All of which was covered by a black, offsetting, overcoat. Arthur had decided to go against the top hat he wore last, for something a tad bit fresh. A deerstalker hat to be precise. Something radiant, and something that Abberline would find to be complete and utter irony.

And, he simply could not fathom a crime without his beloved knife. Having polished it just the other day, it's beauty captivating Arthur in more ways than one. And he had slipped it, oh so gently as to not create any scruff marks against the shiny blade, into it's holster beneath the overcoat.

Oh, was he ready to begin. The painter had finally prepped his tools in order to decorate the blank, the bland, canvas.

Arthur could not linger amongst his house any longer, which is why he dusted off those tired old legs of his, and walked all those miles to Whitechapel. He did not need another carriage driver spouting off to Mr. Abberline like the last go around.

This, however, was at four in the morning-the sun still hadn't arrived for its mandatory appearance at the horizon-and the intoxicating smell of old whiskey causing Arthur to become sidetracked and indulge in a quick drink.

A quick drink that had lasted until five that same morning, but let us not gloss over unimportant details now.

Nonetheless! Mr. Kirkland was on his merry way to uncover the location of his precious Annie-alcohol reeking from his breath but he was somehow still sober enough to register his actions. Luckily, he hadn't taken long to find her. Find her showing off her legs on the street, simply famished of any currency.

"'Ello, Miss." Arthur called out, catching Annie's partial attention-as she noticed a friend walking on by from across the street. "Name your price." Now the Briton had snared her undivided attention, slipping a few extra shillings than what he requested into her hand.

All the while, Mrs. Elizabeth Long-the woman across the street-was watching with prying eyes. Taking note of the odd hat resting on top of blonde hair and the ominous overcoat obscuring what was underneath. But, she hadn't decided to call out when that man was leading her friend astray.

Now, Mr. Kirkland was in the clear. Holding Annie Chapman's hand as they were approaching Hanbury Street.

* * *

 **AN: Thank you all for reading, I certainly enjoyed myself while writing this and I wish the same to you while you read this.**

 **Isn't Arthur such a doll?**


	4. Annie Chapman

With Miss Annie Chapman clung to Arthur's forearm, the duo ventured off to a secluded spot to complete the activities Arthur had paid good coin for. Neither of then spoke one minuscule word to either individual. However, that hadn't meant that no conversations were occurring within their grey brain space. Annie, as gentleman would say 'ladies first', simply had her mind focused on the money the man escorting her had presented her with, for her scandalous services. After all this, she was to pay off her rent for her dumpy lodging and perhaps knit something spectacular to barter off at the crack of dawn. Now for Arthur. What was he conjuring up in that skull of his? When was he to halt their trek together and go forth with the murder? Would he partake in those sinful services before his bloodlust controlled his mind; and like a puppet he did his bidding. How would he skillfully wield and dance with his knife that very evening. So many questions bouncing around, yet, so little time.

Who, where, what, why, when and how. The fundamental basics to relaying a question in the English language-some concept Arthur knew all too well, considering his status as the... That isn't all too important concerning the events of this tale. My condolences for the digression.

The who was all ready answered and spelled out as clear as day. Miss Annie Chapman of the Whitechapel borough of London, casual prostitute at night, and current possession of Mister Arthur Kirkland.

The when? Oh well, why stall on this particularly splendid night? Why not now! Why be the tortoise instead of the hare!

The where? If the appropriate time is now, the location housing his collection of art would be Handbury street. In some blighted backyard by a revolting-rotting-doorway.

The what? Isn't this the tricky sort. The knife? The killer, the victim! Who was the what? And what was the who?

The why? The response 'Why not' may be applicable to this sort of question; but that is quite the full response, is it not? Was it to redefine the study of the arts? Was it to set fresh, soaring, expectations for a new wave of murderous fiends? Was it for the delightful sense of a cheap thrill? Was it all for nothing, souls of innocent women being lost for absolutely bloody nothing?

The how? Well, why explain such a thing when we can see it for ourselves! So you better pay attention.

Arthur threw his left arm up in the air, in a quick swing, in order to detach Annie from his forearm. The prostitute presented the Englishman with a perplexed look-was his wife carrying a basket of flowers nearby, was it simply and utterly an arm spasm, what is blazes had to occur for this bizarre behavior to surface! With a smirk tugging at his beautiful lips, Arthur released a chuckle while curling his fingers around the opening to his overcoat. Showcasing his impressively large knife to a now petrified Annie.

Her face dropped, the blood cascading down her veins to leave behind one single color. A ghastly shade of white-yet green was beginning to pop up around her lips. Her lips were parted in an "O" shape as she began to back off; her feet lightly paddling against the cobblestone.

Arthur loved the petty act.

The Englishman oh so slowly released his knife from his holster. (He wasn't in any particular hurry after all, the victims tend to draw out their reactions to the point of it being an hilarious spectacle.) He pointed it's tip at her throat, slowly pressing at her throat so she would back into a wall. "Now, dearest pet, why don't you do what you do best? Lie down and beg."

All that pathetic _BITCH_ did was stare. Stare as if that would immediately solve her complication here. Nothing bore Arthur more than a sad sack of human depravity _NOT_ playing the game of life! "Would you look at you." Arthur's voice was lower than his normal tone, his accent having grown thick from his anger swelling within his chest. "You pathetic little whore." He growled, switching his knife to his left hand, and making use of his right by harshly grabbing Annie's shoulder; and throwing her to the ground. "The last girl at least screamed for her life!" He planted both his feet on the ground besides her hips, before lowering himself to straddle her waist. "AND TO THINK You would be something like her-no! Better than her!" He raised his dominant hand well above his pretty little head, bringing it back down with enough momentum to leave a painful sting to Annie's cheek.

And she still held that dumbfounded look upon her stupid face.

The Englishman growled, bringing up his palm again for another slap to her cheek-a satisfying skin-on-skin contact noise echoing through the area. He wrapped his hand around her delicate throat, catching the noises of her finally whining, and seeing the crystal tears forming at the edge of her eyes. Now she was prepped for the game. Yet, her incredibly weak flailing of her limbs underneath the very miniscule amount of Arthur's body weight, was only making the animal inside of him crave her blood more and more.

"Tell her I said hello." Arthur grunted, as he returned the knife to his dominant hand. He slowly dug the knife into her throat, him watching with hungry eyes as blood bubbled up through the incision-and Miss Chapman gurgling as her form only of communication.

Arthur laughed to himself quietly-being mindful of the occupants nearby-licking his delicate lips as he did his signature move to her. Swiping his knife clear through her throat left to right, the sound of flesh tearing and blood pouring out onto the street. "You simply look ravishing, my dear."

* * *

 **Victim number two, Annie Chapman, can now be checked off. Arthur sure had his fun with her.**


	5. The Game

**DISCLAIMER: I pay no disrespect to the victims of Jack the Ripper. My apologies if this was the case with previous chapters. What happened was truly horrendous, and I wish no disrespect to the unfortunate victims.**

* * *

The blood-soaked body of Annie Chapman was discovered shortly after her 'tragic' demise.

Arthur sheathed his murder weapon back into it's holster attached to his belt, as the blood fountain spurting from Annie's neck began to lose it's luster. With a devilish glint in his emerald orbs he observed every last inch of her form, with a smirk silently sneaking its way onto his thin lips. The blood soaking the collar of her cheap dress , as well as the grey cobblestone street beneath her, caused an inaudible chuckle to ripple through his chest-his lips parting as small clicks in his throat resonated through the silent air. What a horrendously stunning visual he had created! Wouldn't you agree? At this rate he simply couldn't linger about in his home in wait for the tabloids to catch the news. He could already envision the headlines."Ghastly Murder on Hanbury Street!" or perhaps something a bit more preposterous as "Another Murder! New Serial Killer at Play?" Gosh, how delectable those titles sounded to Arthur's corrupting mind. So, after licking clean the blood cascading down in streams on his luxurious black leather gloves, Arthur disembarked from his latest effort.

With a poor-unfortunate-man stumbling upon Arthur's deed while going outside to fix his shoe. John Richardson being his given name. More and More fear began to disperse about the country of Britain. Women were given strict curfews and often found themselves locked inside, and men began to keep watchful eyes on every single living thing they crossed by on the street; in an attempt to find this ghastly fiend. Whitechapel was the heart of it all, if the citizens were to remain in the constant state of fearing for their worthless lives then the rest of britain would ditto their movements. The workers slaving over at the Printing Presses were not the only ones eating this fear pandemic up.

Arthur was as well.

Being the maestro of this ordeal, Arthur always kept tabs either it be with the police investigations of the status of his people's mental deteriorations. Abberline was stricken with a lack of leads and the citizens of Britain were petrified. What more could bring a smile to such an old man's face? (Despite the unmistakable fact our Arthur here appears to be in his twenties… Oh but, once more, I digress.)

Yet, there was another instance of a meeting that occurred two days after the first murder. Abberline was rapping his knuckle against the killer's door.

"Good morning." Abberline greeted, tipping his hat to Arthur at eight o'clock in the bloody morning. "I have some more questions, if you don't mind me asking that is." Abberline said, causing Arthur to spring into action.

Damn, Detective Abberline was well equipped and informed for this game they were playing.

"Yes, most certainly, please come on in. I was about to pour myself some breakfast tea anyway." Arthur responded, swinging the door further open to allow Abberline near any incriminating evidence. The detective removed his wool overcoat and placed it onto the shiny brass coat rack alongside his cap. Arthur led the curious sod into the parlor-the fire burning in the fireplace encasing the detective with a feeling of warmth other than the typical frigid weather that England all ways had on display.

Arthur excused himself for a quick moment, venturing off into the kitchen to retrieve that breakfast tea he spoke of earlier. He poured the brown liquid from the teapot into two white porcelain cups-painted with red roses. He nearly spilled it onto his holding the tea cup's handle, and narrowly avoided a burn of any kind, before returning back to the large parlor room. Abberline had migrated to the mantle of the fireplace, eyeing the sentimental keepsakes simply for the hell if it. But he returned back to the blue velvet couch Queen Victoria had sent, which was opposite of Arthur's lace trimmed couch. He thanked the elder Briton and graciously indulged in a prolonged sip from the liquid.  
"I presume you know what has happened recently." Abberline cleared his throat. "The entire reason why I am bothering you."

Not selecting the word 'Whitechapel' was a fabulous move of Abbeline's part; Arthur would give him much deserved praise for that.

"There are so many things that occur each day, detective. You must remind me of what you are speaking of." Let's not forget how well Arthur could adapt to this game as well.

"Does the name, Annie Chapman, ring any bells?"

Arthur pulled a face as if he was contemplating, sipping his tea during the charade. Before his bushy eyebrows sudden rose up and his eyes widened just a smidge-like an over exaggerated housewife. "The papers talked about her, right?"

"Leather Apron's doing." Abberline continued. "His name has been on the headlines too. The public and my men believe that a man who works with leather is to blame. Last one seen in that area, by witness testimony."

"So you have the killer?"

"Far from it, if my opinion matters."

Arthur set his tea cup down and slumped back into his spot, the plush welcoming him. "What a shame... My people are scared and I can feel their emotions running through me..." Arthur said, a sad undertone in his voice. "But you are here for questions, correct? Surely I can help the matter in any way I can!"

The man believing in the suit of justice card never fails. It even caused Abberline to raise an eyebrow at the sudden statement.

"Where were you the night of the murder?"

"If it was anywhere between the span of nine at night until eight, then I was in my bed either reading or sleeping."

"Did you know the victim?"

"Not one bit."

"Would you happen to see anything suspicious from any person you know?"

"I only speak to the Queen, god bless her, on a regular basis. All my other friends are such old chaps, I wouldn't even fathom that they were involved."

"Are you speaking the truth?"

"Absolutely."


	6. Elizabeth Stride

Abberline still has yet to decipher who the killer was in these heinous acts of crimes disguised as art were. It could be a Jew in a mental asylum, who was curled on top the dirtied tiles in his disgusting-browning-straight jacket. Perhaps a fellow lady of the night was just so happening to be eliminating any and all competition, since customers don't come running in at her beckoning call. The fiend could indeed be the author of Alice and Wonderland, who on this gracious earth knows! Certainly not the genius Abberline and his pathetic excuse for police officers!

Exactly how Arthur was praying how this show would proceed.

Forged letters have been sent in, people running their traps and claiming left and right that they themselves saw the killer with their very eyes, and the tabloids fueling England's crazed state with an abundance of fibbed information. Even the queen herself questioned the safety of her people, but she is often cooped up in that glamorous palace of hers that the public is unaware of that information.

No soul, other than Abberline, second guessed Arthur's presumed angelic innocence.

Even when he was strolling through Whitechapel on a typically cloudy and chilled day, no one dare to paint him as the villain. No not the daylight prostitutes keeping a well placed eye on their companion's backs. Neither the pub owners who surveyed their patrons for any twitch of abnormality. Not even the poor lady who Arthur accidentally bumped into while he scouted for his next canvas for his knife.

This lady was absolutely stunning, dazzling sky blue eyes paired with darkened brown hair (Nearing the shade of a darkened red), and she was carrying a handmade woven basket filled with immature fruits plucked from some Welsh lady's garden three blocks away and near expired beef from the questionable butcher down the road that used filthy tools smuggled our of the workhorses. However, she appeared to be a bit… young for such a provocative environment. The clothes on her back gave off an air of scandalism, and the messy makeup barely covering any flaws on her face seemed to confirm the previous allegation.

"My apologies, Miss…?" Arthur began, after watching the girl adjust the basket laying in her forearm with hungry eyes picking apart at every inch of her body.

She cleared her throat. "Mary Jane Kelly." She introduced herself, an Irish accent evident on her voice. Only driving Arthur wild in return.

"Ah, my apologies, Miss Kelly." Arthur continued with this Mary only bowing her head just a bit for that phrase. "I was… out of my body for a moment."

"Isn't everyone 'round here, love?" Mary replied, shifting her gaze to the galloping stallion hauling a carriage besides them on the road. "Eh, somethin' about Leather Apron."

"You mean this 'Jack the Ripper' bloke? A letter turned up with that very pen name." Arthur interrupted.

"Ain't that the same fella?"

Arthur chuckled. "You have a point, love."

Another girl decided to pop into the picture. Stout lady, curvy body complimented by a heavily fastened corset-that seemed more or less as if it was choking her than aiding with her depleting looks-and clothes rugged and torn in many places. "Mary?" She called out, disregarding the conversation she budged in on. "Mary is that you?" She barked out once more, allowing herself in between Miss Mary and gentleman Arthur here.

"Elizabeth?" Mary called out, her lips curling up at the sudden appearance of a presumed friend. A presumed friend who wasn't welcomed in Arthur's book. "Ah! I didn' know you'd be out here!"

 _Now isn't this just a tad bit rude._

Mary averted her attention from Elizabeth for a moment to return her gaze on Arthur. "Sorry, love, it was nice chattin' with you for a bit." She said before walking past Arthur with Elizabeth at her side-a displeased frown prominently on display on Arthur's face.

"Good evening Ms. Stride, I'll see you tonight! Flower and Dean street, right?"

"Long Liz, Mary, good seeing both of you! I haven't seen you both in the longest time!"

"Flower.."

"...and Dean..."

"...Street."

"Tonight."

 _"Why don't you visit me tonight, Arthur?"_

Arthur hadn't known whether or not those conversations were either occurring in his mind or as he stealthily tailed the two girls he was recently acquainted with. He recently began having that problem, yet talking to a doctor would label him a madman worthy of the asylum. But he knew one thing for absolute certain, Flower and Dean Street would be Jack the Ripper's new stalking grounds.

He could simply imagine the thick, crimson, blood cascading down his knife like a waterfall. How adorable!

Abberline better be getting his precious pets, or the police as most of the British population labeled them, together. The death of Elizabeth Stride was to be that very night. The most gruesome, horrendous, and despair-inducing homicide of Arthur's yet! Well, that's what it was planned to be in Arthur's head at least.

* * *

 **AN: Thank you kindly for reading! I'm attempting to stay as accurate as I can when I am writing this. But, as evident by Elizabeth Stride and Mary Jane Kelly being acquainted, history will be altered just a tad bit. I hope this doesn't bother every reader out there.**

 **Nonetheless, would you kindly leave a review? I'd love to know how I'm faring so far!**


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